Bond of Iron
by Regiss
Summary: Oneshot. Grom Hellscream has received a visit from a stranger, and now gathers the other orc leaders together to discuss their race's future. Warlords of Draenor prelude.


As the sun set over Nagrand, Oshu'gun, the sacred Mountain of Spirits, glowed an ethereal orange. The orcs at the base of the mountain drank and feasted and partied in their biannual Kosh'harg festival, where all the clans across the world met together. But while once this had been a glorious event and an opportunity to see old friends, it wasn't nearly as important as before. Not since the Horde brought the clans together permanently.

How long had it been now? A year, or even more? Not too long ago, Ner'zhul, head shaman of the Shadowmoon clan and respected by all, had insisted that the draenei, another race on this world, were evil. At his behest the clans united into a single army and began attacking the draenei before they could attack the orcs. It could not even be called a war, not really. It was genocide. The draenei barely put up a fight.

But Ner'zhul had vanished from the public eye as of late, and his apprentice Gul'dan had become the voice of the Horde. Gul'dan was pushing a new form of magic, one that did not require asking the elements and ancestors for aid. He dubbed these new casters, of which he was the first, the "warlocks."

Now, several orc chieftains sat around a fire in the beautiful Nagrand night. They had been called together by Grommash Hellscream of the Warsong clan, who was oddly quiet for once. He was thinner than other orcs, but not weak. His axe Gorehowl – name for the screaming noise it made when it was swung – was pierced into the dirt. Grom's tattooed face was unreadable as he watched the other chieftains intently, which only made them uncomfortable – Grom was _never_ patient, and they questioned just what he was doing.

Blackhand, with his massive war hammer sitting over his crossed legs, grunted in impatience. Despite his brutish exterior, Blackhand was smart and cunning. And he was power-mad. The other chieftains eyed him warily, for they knew that he had already been approached by Gul'dan and offered to make his Blackrock clan the first clan with warlocks. And they knew full well that he would accept it if it put him in a position of power. The Blackrocks of the mountainous Gorgrond region to the north were a hard people and needed power to get by. Blackhand looked behind him to the only orc present at the meeting who was not a chieftain: his second in command, Orgrim Doomhammer.

Orgrim nodded under his chieftain's gaze. His family was a well known one among the orcs for their power and ferocity, but most of all for the legendary weapon which the family was named after. The Doomhammer was strapped to Orgrim's back, and his iconic black and gold armor reflected the glow of the flames. When Blackhand turned away from Orgrim, Orgrim looked over to another orc, clad in wolf furs.

Durotan of the Frostwolf clan smiled back at Orgrim. They were old friends, and long ago had been saved from an ogre by the surprise arrival of the draenei. Durotan and Orgrim had spent that night in a draenei city and even eaten dinner with the Prophet Velen, leader of all draenei. Since this war with the draenei began, Durotan had been the most outspoken orc against it. The leadership of the Horde did not trust him and he knew it. Of all the chieftains at the gathering, Durotan looked the least tired. His Frostwolf clan lived in Nagrand and was the closest to Oshu'gun, so had the least distance to travel for the Kosh'harg festival.

"Must we wait much longer?" came the voice of Kargath Bladefist, Chieftain of the Shattered Hand clan from the southern Spires of Arak. His pale skin and long black hair stood out among all the other orcs. His appearance had come from a lifetime of working in the ogres' slave mines. Kargath had taken his name from the revolt he held in those mines, where he cut off his own hand to break free of his chains and attached a scythe to the stump. The orcs who rallied behind him and freed themselves of the ogres became the Shattered Hand.

Kilrogg Deadeye, the last chieftain to gather, scoffed at Kargath's impatience. Kilrogg was an old, old orc – ancient, in fact. He and his Bleeding Hollow clan lived in the Tanaan Jungle on a peninsula to the east. The Bleeding Hollow's chieftain had long ago torn out one of his eyes to receive visions of the future, a rite of passage for all chiefs of the clan. The Bleeding Hollow fighters were fanatical berserkers, and no orc ever wanted to face one on the battlefield. But even he, with his gift of sight, could not see why the chieftains of these clans had gathered.

At last, Grom Hellscream stood up. He eyed each of the other orcs in turn, even Orgrim Doomhammer in the back, and began to speak.

"I received a visit last night from a stranger," he said, "a prophet. He tells me that the ways of the warlock are not for us." The other orcs looked around at each other warily before Grom continued. "He claims that following the path Gul'dan will lead us down will bring the orcs pain – victory, yes, but also enslavement. Enslavement to a force that Gul'dan is already controlled by."

The others said nothing. They, too, had noted how Gul'dan's rich brown skin had become a sickly green, how he had seemed withered and ancient despite being younger than any of them, and how his eyes glowed a fierce red. The warlock had insisted that it was a small price to pay for the powers he had been given, but no one had been comfortable with his changed appearance.

"How do you know you can trust this 'prophet?'" Durotan asked Grom. His voice sounded hopeful. Everyone there knew he wanted a way out of the fight with the draenei.

Grom smiled. "The prophet has shown me another way to power. He brought with him drawing, designs, of brilliant machinery. Things unlike any I had ever seen. With these, we could easily overpower the draenei, and we would not fall to Gul'dan's treachery!"

Durotan looked crestfallen. So the orcs intended to continue the fight, warlocks or no.

"Blackhand," Grom said, "your people live in the mountains. Gorgrond is rich in resources. With your help, we could build this machinery. We can win this war!"

Blackhand's eyes sparkled at the possibilities. "If this is true, then we will gain power without enslavement," he said. "Hellscream, I must see these blueprints, but I find that I am quite interested in this plan of yours."

Grom chuckled and pulled out rolled up parchments from his pack. He opened them and tossed them onto the ground, where the fire illuminated them. The orcs all retrieved one each to read what was on them, to see this strange prophet's designs. Durotan heard Kargath chuckle in approval, while Blackhand – with Orgrim reading over his shoulder – nodded and smiled.

Durotan himself paled. The blueprint he had picked up detailed a machine called a 'cannon.' With fire and gunpowder it would destroy buildings and blow holes in bodies. This was not the orcish way!

"I approve," said Kilrogg Deadeye. The other chieftains save Durotan followed in agreement. They all turned to look at the young Frostwolf leader then, and he shook his head and sighed.

"I will not have any part of this," he said. "I am tired of facing a foe that will not fight back."

"You would turn your back on your own people?" Grom asked.

"The Frostwolves are my people. If we must go far away to avoid the fighting, then so be it. I will lead my clan to the mountains in the north. Let you fools live with this… this 'Iron Horde' you will create." Durotan stormed off, casting one last glance at his old friend Orgrim. Orgrim averted his gaze, and Durotan sighed.

'_Iron Horde…'_ Despite Durotan's reaction, something about that name clicked with Grom. He snarled. "Very well, Frostwolf clan, but this Iron Horde will take what is ours. Know that you cannot escape the war." He looked around at the remaining orcs as he began to speak, pride swelling in his voice.

"War… it is the lifeblood of this world. We are its children; soon, its masters." He smiled, and in the firelight his eyes looked red. "Ours is a legacy of conquest! A rising tide of blood and iron that will wash over this world, and _all others!_"

Slowly, the other orcs stood up, and Grom Hellscream let loose a bloodcurdling cry that did justice to his name.

"Our bond is iron. Our will unbreakable. Who will stand against us?"


End file.
